A wet Monday in my Mother’s bedroom, by Lucie K
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14th Jul 2015

A wet Monday in my Mother’s bedroom

Early Autumn.
Two doors down, they are bringing home the turf.
Yellowing trees and grey and that first faint chill
in the distance; playground shouting.
Not late enough yet for the leaves
under our feet, home from school.
Not cold enough yet for hot chocolate mugs
with favourite television and the smell of coal.

This silence is relentless.

Faintly the sun still shines
on remaining flowers; sweet-peas,
sodden nasturtiums clinging together in their colours.
Drooping sunflowers, glowing at a distance;
raindrops glisten on their collars,
waiting for the first frost.

I make the bed, dust, watch
the dying sun trudge across the walls.
Too clean. Too tidy. Too much colour.
There is nothing.

The only ghost in this room is me. 

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